The silence in the grand hall of the Spirit Transmission Tower was heavy enough to crush a lesser soul. Qian Gu Qingfeng, a man whose very name commanded the winds of the continent, stared intensely at his grandson. He searched for a flicker of hesitation, a shadow of deceit, or the tell-tale mark of the Holy Spirit Cult's corruption.
Qian Gu Zhangting stood perfectly still. His expression was a mask of cold, unyielding jade.
Finally, the oppressive pressure in the room dissipated. Qingfeng exhaled, a long, weary sound that betrayed a sliver of relief. It wasn't a leak. His grandson hadn't been seduced by the dark whispers of the Cult; his connection to those "rats" was purely clinical—a surgical necessity for the Brain Development Project.
"It is not worth the risk, Zhangting," Qingfeng said, his voice echoing with the weight of centuries. "The Holy Spirit Cult are pariahs, rats crossing a busy street. Their 'strength' is an illusion of shadows that would evaporate the moment the Federation decides to shine a light. To touch them is to invite a stain that never washes out."
Zhangting stepped forward, the heels of his boots clicking sharply against the polished obsidian floor. He knew that while his grandfather's sect ignored the past, his own lineage understood the present. The Holy Spirit Cult didn't just possess shadows; they possessed data. Their research into the human psyche and soul-brain integration was an absolute treasure trove, a map to a realm the Federation had yet to colonize.
To change the mind of a Limit Douluo, one did not use logic. One used the heart.
"Grandpa," Zhangting began, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic resonance that vibrated with a strange, hypnotic sincerity. "We are merely human beings. We are not gods granted the luxury of eternal light."
Qingfeng's eyes narrowed, but Zhangting pressed on, his gaze unfaltering.
"Three hundred years of spring blossoms, autumn chills, and winter snows... they pass in the blink of an eye. In the end, even the mightiest Limit Douluo is destined to become nothing more than a handful of yellow earth, forgotten by the wind. Should we not exhaust every possibility, touch every forbidden flame, while we still have the strength to hold the torch?"
Zhangting paused, leaning in slightly. The air between them grew charged with a different kind of tension—not of power, but of shared mortality.
"Think of Grandma," he whispered.
The shift was instantaneous. The atmosphere turned frigid. At the mention of Xia Zhengleng, the temperature in the room plummeted.
Qingfeng's hands, usually steady as mountains, tightened on the arms of his throne. Zhangting saw the flicker of pain and fury. He was playing with fire, using his grandmother's failing vitality to provoke his grandfather's desperation.
He and Xia Zhengleng were no longer young. While Qingfeng reigned supreme as a Limit Douluo, his wife remained trapped within the Super Douluo realm. Her cultivation had hit a wall of glass, transparent but unbreakable. He had a century left, perhaps more, but he could feel the sands of her life slipping through his fingers.
"Snort!" Qingfeng let out a harsh, freezing sound. "You little brat... you've even begun to plot against your own grandparents to get your way."
"I seek only the preservation of our blood," Zhangting replied immediately, bowing his head in a display of practiced humility. Inside, he smiled. The hook was set. "If I possessed the strength to snatch these secrets from the Cult myself, I would have stained my hands long ago. I would not trouble you if my own soul power weren't so... inadequate."
Qingfeng waved a hand, a dismissive gesture that served as an order to leave. "Enough. I will consider it."
Zhangting did not leave. Instead, he reached into his robes and produced a scroll—a proposal so meticulously detailed it looked like a work of art. He set it on the table and looked toward the shadow where he knew his grandmother was listening.
"Grandma, do not worry," he said softly, his voice dripping with a warmth that felt almost predatory. "Your grandson has crafted a foolproof plan. I will not allow Grandpa to take a single unnecessary risk."
With a final, elegant bow, Zhangting withdrew.
Once the heavy doors sealed, Xia Zhengleng stepped out from behind the silken screens. The couple sat together, the silence of their long marriage speaking volumes. They opened the proposal, and as they read, the tension in Qingfeng's face began to melt into a grim fascination.
"The boy is a devil," Zhengleng murmured, her voice thin but sharp. "He calls it the 'Perfect Strategy.' Cooperate with the Federation to give us legitimacy, make a secret deal with the Cult for their raw data, and then use the Federation's own resources to process it. We share the results with the politicians—just enough to keep them fed—while we keep the core breakthroughs for the family."
"The world is a marketplace of greed," Qingfeng added, his brow furrowing again. "The politicians will jump at the chance for 'brain development.' But there is a flaw. The Federation is a sieve. Shrek Academy and the Tang Sect have infiltrated their ranks so deeply that a secret told to a Senator is a secret told to the Sea God's Pavilion."
He felt like a man building a fortress only to hand the keys to his rivals.
Zhengleng reached out, her fingers—chilled by her stagnating cultivation—touching the back of his hand. "Qingfeng, look closer. Zhangting doesn't care about the leak. His talent in mental strength was a miracle even before his martial soul awakened. Even the old eunuchs at the quasi-god level were terrified of his potential."
She leaned in, a dark light in her eyes. "By the time Shrek Academy manages to steal the blueprints and understand the data, Zhangting will have already used those breakthroughs to ascend. We aren't building a ladder for everyone; we are building a rocket for our grandson. The time gap is all he needs to grow into a monster that even Yun Ming cannot suppress."
The realization hit Qingfeng like a physical blow. The Spirit Pagoda, Shrek Academy, and the Tang Sect were locked in a cold war that was rapidly turning hot. If the Qian Gu family produced a genius who could rival the number one man on the continent, the "balance" of the world would be shattered forever.
Qingfeng's fist slammed onto the table, not in anger, but in resolution. For his wife's life, for his family's glory, he would walk into the abyss.
Chapter 12: Mortal Gods, Flawless Golden Bodies
Qian Gu Zhangting sat cross-legged in his private cultivation chamber.
The room was a masterpiece of hidden geometry. Inscribed into the floors and walls were thousands of tiny, glowing arrays that hummed with a low-frequency vibration. It wasn't the opulence of gold that defined this room, but the sheer density of the spiritual energy. It was thick enough to taste, a shimmering mist of primordial power that poured into Zhangting's pores like liquid starlight.
In the modern era, the Tang Sect's Xuan Tian Gong was the standard, but for the great clans, "standard" was a synonym for "mediocre." Over tens of thousands of years, the Qian Gu family had refined their own meditation methods, tailoring them specifically to the resonance of their bloodline.
As Zhangting breathed, his skin took on a faint, metallic luster. His soul power didn't just circulate; it surged, carving paths through his meridians with the precision of a master sculptor. He was building a body that wasn't just a vessel, but a temple.
He had been submerged in this sea of power for hours when his communication device pulsed with a sharp, insistent light.
He opened his eyes. The golden glow in his pupils lingered for a second before fading into the dark. It was a call from his teacher, Han Tianyi.
"The council has moved faster than expected," Han's voice was tense, laced with a mixture of excitement and dread. "The collaboration between the Spirit Pagoda and the Body Sect is officially active. But there's a complication, Zhangting."
Zhangting stood up, his joints popping like small explosions in the silent room. "A complication?"
"The Body Sect isn't just sending an envoy to talk," Han replied. "They are sending a 'test.' They want to see if the genius of the Spirit Pagoda actually has a body worthy of their secrets. If you fail to impress them, the deal dies before the ink is dry."
Zhangting walked toward the window, looking out over the sprawling city beneath the tower. A dark, predatory smile touched his lips.
"Let them come," he whispered. "I've been wondering how a 'Mortal God' feels under the weight of my halberd."
But as he hung up, a strange sensation prickled the back of his neck. He turned around, his senses sharper than a razor, and stared at the empty corner of his high-security room.
The shadows there seemed... deeper than they should be. And for a fleeting moment, he smelled the faint, unmistakable scent of lilies—a scent that shouldn't exist in a sterilized cultivation chamber.
Someone was already inside.